I shifted my weight onto my other leg. It had started to throb. “How do you expect to care for Zackary if you’re out getting drunk all night and asleep for most of the day?”
“You’re a fine one to talk. At least I’m around for him.” She staggered, but managed to catch herself in time. “But you’re never around for him. He needs you too, you know?”
Her war of wit was infuriating and in her present condition any rebuttal would have been a pointless exercise, but I couldn’t stop myself. “I would love to be around Zack, but as you are clearly aware, he’s terrified of me.”
“He’s not the only fucking one,” she muttered under her breath, but I’d heard it … as clear as day. A few years ago, it would have cut through my ego like a knife, but now it sifted through my consciousness like air. Inconsequential. I couldn’t give a damn what she or anyone else thought.
“Get your act together,” I said harshly. “Otherwise I’ll step in.” I whirled around to leave, but her words came after me, defiant and taunting.
“How dare you talk to me like that? I’m not your servant. I’m your wife, and the mother of your child.”
“Then behave like one. Be a mother to that poor child.”
“I have needs too,” she cried.
“I am sure your needs are being met.” My voice was cold and uncaring. The whole conversation bored me. All I wanted from her was to be a good mother to Zackary.
“What I need from you is a good fuck, but since you have relinquished even that basic duty, I’m forced to find other ways to keep myself alive. I know you saw what happened outside. Did you enjoy watching?”
I continued walking away, but at her next statement I screeched to a halt.
“I’ve hired a nanny if you care to know.”
I turned slowly to face her. “What?”
“Of course, that would get your attention,” she hurled. There was gloating triumph in her beautiful face.
“Why does Zackary need a nanny? Are you planning on going somewhere?” My voice was soft.
She raised her chin defiantly. “No, but I need the help. He’s growing, just in case you haven’t noticed. He requires more time and attention, and my life can’t continue to simply revolve around him.”
I thought of the dark-haired man with his fist inside her. “What then will your life revolve around?”
Her snort was bitter. “You’ve always been so condescending towards me. I’m nothing in your eyes, aren’t I, Mr. Gazillionaire. But you know what? You deserve the misfortune you’ve got. The only person who didn't was my father … he got the brunt of your misfortune, didn’t he? If my father saw the way you treat me now, he would turn in his grave.”
She continued her ascent up the stairs, and I let her go past me. I did not trust myself to speak. I was furious at her crass mention of Stanley. How dare she say that? He had spoilt her rotten so she never knew real love for him. He was just there to pay for everything. If he was turning in his grave it would be because of how she had turned out.
“I’ll keep myself and Zackary away from you, don’t worry,” she said. “The nanny will be here on Monday.”
“Will she be residing here?” I asked from between clenched teeth.
“Of course, but don’t worry, I’ll be sure to warn her to stay away from you. You can just relay your instructions the same way you do with me. Through your esteemed intercom service.”
“Goodnight husband,” she said sarcastically as she passed, but then she stopped when she was at the entrance of the corridor to her wing. She glanced back at me, her face sly. “I wasn't joking earlier. I am drunk enough, but I wouldn’t mind doing it once more for old time’s sake? Your chill is just what I need to put me to sleep. Anyway, don’t you want to know if your cock still works?”
Disgust pooled at the pit of my stomach. “Go to sleep, Jillian.”
The mocking expression was suddenly gone and she just looked distraught. “Brett, remember when you used to come into my room while I was sleeping and just fuck me in the dark as if I wasn’t your wife, but a total stranger. No words.”
“That was eight years ago,” I said harshly. “I was a different person then.”
“I’m sorry. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing? Are you so perfect that you have never made a mistake?”
“You’re wasting your time, Jillian.”
“How many times must I say I’m sorry? I’m your wife, Brett. When are you going to treat me like I am?”
This was exactly the reason I didn’t want to have this discussion while she was drunk. It was a waste of time. “You’re my wife in name only. We have an agreement that benefits our son. The day it does not will be the day we no longer have our agreement. You do your part and I’ll do mine.”
“There’s something missing in my life, Brett. I need you.” She stood at the entrance to her wing, looking at me imploringly. At that moment, I almost pitied her. She was not happy, and no one could ever make her happy. I promised Stanley I would take care of her until my dying day and I would keep that promise, but that was all I was capable of doing.
Without another word, I turned and went to the wing opposite hers. Silently, I entered my son’s room and stood looking down at him for a long time. Memories flooded into my head. Jillian announcing she was pregnant not to me, but at a dinner party in our home. She then proceeded to get so drunk she passed out before the last guest left. The next morning, I took her to Switzerland. She hated it, but there not a drop of alcohol was available for the rest of her pregnancy. Then, that moment of watching the top of Zach’s blond head appear between Jillian’s legs and feeling for the first time in my life fear, and a new sense of vulnerability. He was so small and helpless. What if I could not protect him?
The feeling never left. I felt it even now as I stood over him. Outside the wind had picked up and it howled around the turrets of the castle.
Chapter 4
Charlotte
Though I was still very far away the castle was already visible. Like a hulking, living monster shrouded in morning mist it rose up from the ground and towered over the sleepy town in the valley below.
I stared at it in amazement. It was like looking at Saruman’s castle. In the gentle light the gray stones looked dark, and forbidding, and nothing like the fairy tale, Sleeping Beauty, type castle I had spent almost a year in. I’d loved every minute of my time there and left with a heavy heart. Compared to this castle that one looked almost fake. I could almost have believed it, if someone had said this castle was built by Numenoreans, or magical ancient men from a vanished island.
As we got closer I could see there were two walls between the outside world and the castle. The taxi stopped in front of the solid iron gateway. The driver turned towards me, his eyebrows raised. “What do you want to do, Miss?”
“Give me a minute, please,” I said and climbed out of the black cab. The morning air was fresh and cool. I stretched my stiff limbs and walked over to a panel that looked like it could be some kind of intercom system.
I pressed the button and waited. A full minute must have passed and I looked around apologetically at the taxi driver, but he seemed to be no longer as impatient as he had been while we were still in London where he busied himself with roundly cursing and swearing at anyone who caused him to lose even a second of his time. He looked as awed by our surroundings as I was. I noticed the vertical sliding wooden grille shod with iron suspended in front of a gateway. In times of war or siege it was let down to protect the gate. Its sturdy design that was meant to repel intruders, but was actually at once brutal and strangely beautiful.
Just as I was thinking of putting my finger on the button and holding it there, a thickly accented, deep voice came through the speaker. For all I knew he could have been Count Dracula’s butler.
“Yes.”
I looked up towards the camera. “Er … I’m the new nanny, Miss Charlotte Conrad.”
“Yes, you are expected. Come right up to the side of the house. There
is a staff entrance there.”
A mechanical growl sounded then, and nearly pulled my soul out of me. I jerked back as the heavy gates were pulled automatically apart. I felt a shiver go through me. It was a completely fanciful feeling, but I had the sudden and completely bizarre sensation that I wouldn’t come back out the same if I went in. Shaking my head at my own silliness, I walked quickly up to the taxi, and got in.
“Are you going to be working here, then?” the taxi driver asked as we drove through the first gatehouse.
“Yes, that’s right,” I murmured, not taking my eyes off the frightening sight of murder holes in the ceiling high above us. Hundreds of years ago heated sand, lime, or boiling water would have been poured down on the enemies who had managed to breach the first defense. They suffered the cruel death of being roasted or boiled to death inside their metal armor.
Up ahead the second set of gates were opening inwards as if by magic. Surrounded by a moat we drove up towards the castle. It was easily the most impressive building I had seen in my life.
Two thick towers rose up on either side of the drawbridge. The gothic structure with its ramparts, arrow slits, bastions, battlements, timber corbels, and strangely beautiful crenelations, made me feel as though I had gone back in time to a lost and forgotten world.
The taxi came closer to the castle and I could see the massive front door was covered in iron studs, but I could also see a very much smaller door that was almost hidden away.
“Can you drive to that side, please?” I told the driver, pointing to the left.
The taxi came to a stop and I got out. The fare had already been paid in advance by April. She had insisted on it, because she knew I would have taken the train otherwise. He had not put the meter on, but I guess it must have run into the hundreds.
The driver smiled, his first of our four hours trip, wished me luck, and drove away. I walked over to the small door. It had a large lion-head knocker, but before I could use it the door opened and a balding, frighteningly thin man, attired in white gloves, a peculiar green vest, and a long-tailed charcoal morning coat, stood in front of me.
Wow! A real-life butler in full garb.
“I’m Barnaby Boothsworth,” he introduced, his posture rigid and his eyes expressionless.
“Charlotte Conrad,” I replied with a wry smile. “I guess I’m here to see Mrs. King.”
“Of course.” He stepped aside politely and waited for me to enter before closing the door and offering to take my suitcase directly up to my room. I handed my single piece of luggage to him and he led me down a dark corridor.
“Mrs. King will meet you in the drawing room,” he said as he walked in front of me.
Just before we reached a wooden door, he stowed my suitcase into a nook in the corridor, then ushered me into a massive space.
Ah, the great hall.
Light flowed in through stained windows set high on the soaring walls. There was a humongous stone fireplace which I imagined in winter would heat up the entire room. A long wooden table that could seat about twenty chairs upholstered in green velvet stood in the middle of the room. Above it hung a truly massive chandelier. In a touch of almost poetic beauty a magnificent marble sculpture of a centaur reaching his arms upwards had been placed in the middle of the table and underneath the chandelier, so it seemed as if the creature was reaching up to touch the light.
Large tapestries of hunting scenes decorated the walls. Green was the main color scheme of the décor here, and I understood then where the concept of his vest probably came from. It also gave me a look into the psychology of the mistress of the house, who had decided to match her servants attire with the furnishings. I suddenly recalled reading a book by a Victorian servant. He said the best servant was an invisible one.
Our shoes were loud on the flagstone floor as we crossed the great hall and made our way towards another room, which Mr. Boothsworth referred to as the drawing room.
“Please wait here,” he said stiffly, before closing the door quietly behind him.
I looked around the room. The décor had obviously been executed by a professional decorator. It reminded me of watching a program on TV about a billionaire who was trying to sell his yacht to buy a bigger one. Its great selling point was everything in it was made from something unique that no one else had. The coffee table, for example, had been made from the skin of twenty-seven lizards, or something equally ridiculous.
Up on one wall was a lavish and very large painting of a beautiful woman with blonde hair. She was wearing a tiara and sitting on a large gold throne. A small, pale blond boy stood next to her, but he seemed almost ghostly compared to the vigor and greatness of the woman. I knew instantly I was looking at the portrait of my employer, Mrs. King.
Mesmerized by the splendor with which she had been depicted, I walked closer to the painting and stared up at her. There was something about her eyes. The artist had captured something elusive. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew it would come to me. As I was trying to figure out the mysterious hidden message the painter had left for the viewer of his painting, the clack of high heels sounded outside. It stopped at the door.
Chapter 5
Charlotte
Quickly, I moved away from the painting. Standing in the middle of the room I hurriedly adjusted my glasses and smoothed down my hair. A few seconds later the heavy door was pushed open and the woman in the painting stood in the doorway. The artist had not exaggerated her beauty.
I was certain she had to be in her mid-thirties, but she could have easily passed for my younger sister. She was speaking to someone on the phone, but the moment she sighted me, she locked her gaze with mine. I smiled politely and watched her take a seat, shapely legs crossed, the skin of her heels as smooth as a baby’s, and the skirt of her deep pink suit riding high on flawless skin.
She took her time with the call, listening intently to what the person on the other end was saying, but her watchful eyes kept roving restlessly from my face to my body and back. I stood still and politely looked away. Finally, she ended the call which was clearly not important, but she did not want to interrupt on my behalf. It was a form of control. She wanted me to feel uncomfortable and establish her authority from the get go. She didn’t know she hadn’t made me feel uncomfortable at all. Every time people played such shallow games I just pitied them.
“Is it Charlotte?” she asked, her tone as smooth as honey, and eyes moving between my baggy dark pants to my ugly white jumper.
I smiled politely. “Yes.”
“You don’t look much like a Charlotte.”
I knew it was an insult, but I was a professional. No way was I even going to recognize it as anything but an unnecessary comment. I let my smile widen. “I’m afraid that is my name.”
“Yes.” Her lips twisted into a cold, condescending smile. “I wanted someone with more experience, someone … older, but they told me you’re the best.”
“I try hard,” I said quietly, looking unflinchingly into her eyes.
She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I suppose you’ll do.” She glanced at her slim watch. “I have a function to attend so I don’t have all day. Let’s get on with it.” She pressed a button on a panel next to her chair. “Bring Zackary into the drawing room,” she ordered, before refocusing her attention on me. “The housekeeper will show you around and fill you in on everything you need to know about how this household works: mealtimes, Zackary’s schedule etc. However, all instructions pertaining to Zackary’s education, or wellbeing will come only from me. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“So whatever problems you encounter you are to bring it to me and only me. Is that absolutely clear?
I nodded. “Absolutely.”
“The other thing you need to know is, Zackary’s father lives in the South tower. He was involved in an accident five years ago that left him quite …” she searched for the words, “quite unsightly. As such he does not mix with the servants
or the outside world. If you accidentally meet him while you are on your duties, please keep your head down and carry on as if you have not seen him.”
I was sure my eyebrows had disappeared into my hairline. This was the weirdest thing I’d heard.
“If I am not around—sometimes I stay at our apartment in London—and some emergency arises, you will be able to speak to Zackary’s father using the intercom system. You will find it has been installed in every room in this castle. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
She rose to her feet and headed over to a heavy, wooden desk in one corner. Slipping behind it she pulled out a sheaf of papers from one of the drawers. “Something else crucial to keep in mind; I am your employer, not my son’s father so if you're given any instructions with regards to Zackary that is beyond the scope of what I have stipulated in these pages then you are to contact me first.” Mrs. King held the stapled papers out to me. “Here you go. Let me know if anything is unclear or—”
I walked over and took them from her. “Thank you.”
“Study them. They are very important.”
“I will,” I promised.
There was a polite knock on the door.
“Enter,” Mrs. King instructed.
The door was pulled open and a well-dressed, little boy with a pale sickly face was led in by the housekeeper, a plump woman with salt and pepper hair and rosy cheeks. The moment the child saw his mother, he let go of the housekeeper’s hand, and dashed over to her. She moved around the table to meet him.
At that moment, her phone began to ring so she used one hand to deal with it, while she used the other to lightly tap the tip of the little boy’s nose. His lovely green eyes stared up adoringly at her. It was a strange thing to watch. The boy’s utter devotion to his mother seemed bizarre, almost like something from a Victorian novel. He showed no curiosity about the presence of a stranger.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” his mother said into the phone. “I’m just about to leave the house.”
The Man In The Mirror: A Billionaire Romance Page 2
